


Let It Go

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Ship Clint With Everyone [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Happy Ending, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Role Reversal, Self-Doubt, and named Clint, as always, but Phil signed the form, do i write anything else?, dom!Clint, self-respecting bdsm clubs, soooooooo ....., sub!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why?” Coulson turned his hand under Clint’s – he hadn’t moved it, the two of them still connected – and curled his fingers around Clint’s wrist. There it was, the opportunity to come clean. He closed his eyes for two seconds, then opened them again, shifting to widen his legs and draw Coulson’s knee between his as he spoke.</p><p>“Because there’s no good way to tell your bad ass majorly dominant boss that you want to tie him up and whip him until he screams your name.” That was jumping in with both feet, wasn’t it? </p><p>“Fuck,” Coulson sat back in his chair and groaned like the breath had been knocked out of him. “So, you’re not a sub then?”</p><p>“Confused for a while, but Reisa got me straightened out eventually.” He tightened his hold on Coulson’s wrist, fingers pressing into the skin. “You’re not a dom?”</p><p>“All work makes Phil a dull man,” he replied.</p><p>Dedicated to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining">Raiining</a>. Her story, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/660977?view_full_work=true">The Underground</a><a></a>, is one of my first bookmarks on AO3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Underground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/660977) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining). 



> Dedicated to [Raiining](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining). Her story, [The Underground](http://archiveofourown.org/works/660977?view_full_work=true), is one of my first bookmarks on AO3 and I reread all the time. The idea to write a reversal … where Clint’s the Dom and Phil’s the Sub … has been in my head for a long time and I’ve been working on this before Agents of SHIELD, Thor 2, or any news of Cap 2 or Age of Ultron. The story went a different route than I expected, but the basic idea of Clint and Phil meeting at a BDSM club while one is undercover is all hers. Go read her story and give her all the kudos she deserves.  
> This is my first BDSM story and I wanted to write one that was more about caring and trust than whips and clamps. I had every intention of cutting this into sections, but it flows as one unit, so here it is as a whole. Hope you enjoy it!

 

 

Clint pressed his thumb to the biometric pad and the door unlocked, the safety light flashing as the countdown began, just enough time to get inside, drop his ready pack on the small padded bench and key in the security code. The little entryway held only the bench and a small table, but the camera in corner near the ceiling blinked as it began recording. Outer door locked firmly behind him, he leaned in for a retinal scan for the interior door.  Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked into the main part of the brownstone, the rich mahogany floor boards squeaking in all the familiar places, lights turning on as he moved into the open concept space. He tossed his uniform jacket onto the brown leather sofa and left his boots on the mat near the kitchen island. The aroma of coffee wafted from the state-of-the-art stainless steel machine that was percolating on the granite countertop. Best choice he’d made during the rehab was wiring the whole place; he’d set the computer to turn up the heat and start the coffee before he’d finished his debrief and headed home.

And this place was home. Took a long time to do as much of the work between missions as he could, but now it was his refuge. He loved the brand new restaurant grade gas stove, the crown molding in the dining room that had to be stripped of four levels of old paint, and the claw foot cast iron tub in the guest bathroom he’d salvaged from a tear down three blocks over. Just thinking about sleeping in tomorrow made the stress slide away. Well, that and the eight head massaging shower in the master bathroom. That would be a godsend for his aching muscles, tight from sitting in one position for far too long.

He took the stairs two at a time, not stopping at the second floor office and guest rooms, but going on up to the master suite at the top and right into the bathroom to start the water. His uniform went down the laundry chute before he stepped into the warm spray. He’d gone with a tankless water heater so he could stay until the knots began to release and he started to feel human again. As he stepped out onto the mat, he was planning what to order for dinner, probably Thai or sushi, when his cell phone rang. The name on the display surprised him; he picked it up and answered immediately.

“Reisa?” He asked. “What’s happened?”

She’d never call him if there wasn’t a problem; Reisa Zuryev was as competent a woman in her own right as Natasha Romanov.  One of his oldest friends, Reisa’s past was colorful and dark just like Clint’s. They’d first met during Clint’s circus years; the Zuryevs were a family of animal trainers and they wintered over in the same town as Carson did.

“He’s here again, love.” Well, damn. Reisa had a nose for trouble; if she thought someone was dangerous then they were. “And that’s not all. We have a guest who used Jason Howard’s name to gain entrance.”

Double damn and hell. Howard was a cover name Clint had created about six years ago for a S.H.I.E.L.D. sting; he’d used Reisa’s place to meet, luring the mark there to gain his trust. They’d taken him down in the Ukraine after a long operation, another successful shut down of an arms trail that ran from the U.S. to Singapore. That name set off warning bells in Clint’s head because only a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives would know to use it.

“I’m on the way, maybe 20 minutes.” He entered the walk-in, pulling a pair of comfortable jeans and a Ralph Lauren grey Henley as he talked. “Keep them in one of the common rooms until I get there.”

“Already done. And Clint? Come armed.” She ended the call.

In five, he was ready to go, taking the Varvados leather jacket as he clattered down to the main level and out to the garage. The bike was the fastest way to get where he was going; he donned his helmet and let himself out of the back. As the engine roared to life, he remembered just how much he loved the Ducati, revving it once just for the fun of it. The ride was entirely too short; he needed to take that drive up to New England he’d been thinking about sometime soon. Rolling to a stop in front of a non-descript home on East 64th, he cut the engine as a floppy haired young man stepped up to the curb. Dressed in pressed khakis and a black jacket, he reached out for Clint’s keys.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Barton,” he said, but his eyes slid over the bike’s curves, love at first sight. “Is that a Ducati? A Streetfighter?” He whistled appreciatively.

“You know your bikes, Jake.” Clint laughed as he handed over his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. “How’s NYU going? Pre-law still your major?”

Jake grimaced and scrunched up his brown eyes. “Nah, I’m over that now. You were right; I should have gone with my first love. Switched to history at the end of last semester. Haven’t told the folks yet.”

“Hey, if you don’t do what you love, you’ll regret it. Can’t live someone else’s dream.” Clint headed for the wooden door.

“Thanks for coming,” Jake said softly, and Clint only nodded in response. Everyone who worked here was like Clint, all of them lost souls at one point. Jake had been a street kid, no parents, on a fast track to prison or the wrong end of a drive-by when Reisa found him and took him in. Now he had an adoptive family, a scholarship, and a bright future ahead.

“Good evening, Mr. Barton,” Gavin said as he opened the door to let Clint into the small security area just inside the door. His desk housed a state-of-the-art security system but a visitor would think it was an antique, the heavy wood and ornate secretary unit looking right at home with the federal style décor.  Wearing a lovely Saville Row suit, Gavin didn’t appear to be anything more than another East Side wealthy home owner, except for the tattoo that curled above the crisp neck of his blue cotton shirt and the tiny gold hoops in his ears. Close up, though, he was a little too muscular, his bearing clearly military, and his short, spiky blonde hair too much of a buzz cut. “How are you, sir?”

“Tired, actually. Just got in. Tell me Mel made Pad Thai and I’ll be better.” He waited patiently as the full body scan catalogued everything from his watch to the implanted S.H.I.E.L.D. chip in his forearm.  Gavin didn’t blink at the gun tucked into his waistband or the various knives he’d sheathed before leaving his place.

“Even better. She got out the starter for Tom Yum when she heard you were coming in.” With a succinct nod, Gavin cleared him in.

“I’ve only had her version of that once, and it nearly burned my eyes out. I can’t wait.” Clint reached for the knob, but the security man stopped him.

“I’ve got your back.” Gavin’s southern accent was showing, something that only happened when he was ready to explode into action. “Petroni is deadly, no matter what his application said. And the other guy? He looks mild-mannered and very much a sub, but there’s much more beneath the surface.”

Gavin had earned his sixth sense the hard way, growing up gay in a family that believed homosexuality was the work of the devil. He’d been beaten and hospitalized so many times and still the system put him right back into that house when his parents cried crocodile tears in court. The ‘deprogramming’ camp had been the last straw; Gavin had run and never looked back, stumbling into a recruiter’s office and inadvertently finding that he was a damn fine Marine, gay or not. He’d met Reisa in Prague and gone to work for her at the end of his tour of duty. He made an even better security expert.

“Thanks,” Clint said. He wanted to check things out first before dragging anyone else into the situation.

From the outside, no one would know that this building housed one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in New York City, hell, on the whole Eastern seaboard. Reisa ran the place like Nick Fury ran S.H.I.E.L.D. but with less black leather and cussing. Elegance was her favorite weapon, aside from her custom made riding crop, and she catered to a very specific kind of clientele. Wealth wasn’t a requirement for membership; there was a sliding scale of dues based upon ability to pay and a couple long term members had free passes. Clint used to be one of them until he’d gotten off probationary status at work and started earning higher pay grades. Now he made so much money, and had so little free time to spend it, that he picked up the tab for a couple of the others, people he’d sponsored along the way. What was necessary were impeccable references and a thorough background search with a yearlong trial period. This man, Petroni, wouldn’t be the first one to think because he was powerful, he deserved the best … and Reisa’s was the best. References could be intimidated and checks turn up next to nothing, but they always showed their stripes once they thought they were on the inside.  Too many so called dominants were really just bullies who wanted to inflict pain on others in more creative ways, and he bet that Patroni, no matter how fancy the package he presented, was just a thug in dom’s clothing.

For the real members, this brownstone was a place of safety and comfort, somewhere they could come, wipe away their daily faces, and be accepted. It certainly was that for Clint who had learned the hard way that being submissive wasn’t letting someone beat the shit out of you and being dominant wasn’t exerting power over another person to get your rocks off. He’d ended up black and blue too often, sometimes winding up on Reisa’s doorstep, until he’d come to terms with his own abusive past.  Waiting for the right moment, she helped him understand that his constant flaunting of rules wasn’t a cry to be subjugated; it had been a surprise when she’d calmly informed him he was a Dom, not a sub. At least until Clint had accepted the fact, quit trying to find nameless guys in bars who’d leave him bloody and battered, and had his first relationship with a very nice sub named Eleanor who was a chef at a famous TV star’s restaurant and loved to be tied up with silk rope. After that, there was no turning back; he’d had a number of very satisfying lovers since then, most of them he’d met here, and if he didn’t love them or they didn’t last, he couldn’t complain. After all, his lifestyle wasn’t conducive to anything long term.

“Clint! I wondered when Mel announced a change in the menu. Long time, my friend,” Roger called to him as he entered the main salon; the room was long and ran the length of the house, exquisitely decorated in muted browns and yellows, with soft comfortable couches, loveseats, and multiple pillows that could be arranged into many different seating configurations. The art on the walls was subdued but Clint knew just how much was invested in those canvases; Reisa was a savvy business woman and had an amazing eye for up and coming artists, buying early and watching the value rise. Everything here had her stamp on it; not ostentatious, no need to brag, just elegant comfort. Fires burned beneath the two mantles to stave off an imagined chill – the room was warm enough to sit naked in – and Ellen and Marc were circulating, picking up empty glasses and offering refills.

Roger Briton was a CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation who was as feared among his competitors as he was respected by his board.  Taking over when the company was on the verge of bankruptcy after the banking crisis of the 90s, Roger had not only kept them afloat, but increased their market share. Ruthless in the best way, the man made a thousand decisions a day, each one a risk, and never sweated the details, leaving all of that to others to deal with. But here, he belonged to the woman sitting in the sofa behind him, cradling him between her legs as he leaned into her, his balding head lying on her thigh. His expensive trousers were rolled up, his feet bare for his preferred pleasure, his shirt hanging loose from his belt, unbuttoned and showing his middle age paunch. Around his neck sat a worn black leather collar, and he sighed contentedly as she tugged lightly on the back of it, lifting his head so he could look at Clint.

“I heard there’s Tom Yum,” Clint replied, using the opportunity to cast his eyes around the room and catalogue the occupants while seeming to look for friends.

“I’m delighted!” Pamela Stuart said. “I do so love Mel’s Thai food. Roger has to watch the spices, so I’ll eat enough for both of us, isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Doctor says to avoid spicy food and anything with seeds. I do miss it, though.”

Roger and Pam had one of the strongest relationships Clint had ever had known. Pam, an executive secretary at a small brokerage house on Wall Street, was a pleasant woman who ran to the plump side – Roger called her voluptuous and she was absolutely gorgeous when she went to work with a cane. Silver shot through her dark hair, pulled back neatly in a bun, and her green eyes often flashed with humor. They’d met when Pam’s boss did some consulting for Roger’s company about eight years ago and then discovered they were both members at Reisa’s. So compatible it was downright scary, Clint thought, and they had finally married two years ago. The lifestyle worked for them; Roger was able to relax and turn over all responsibilities to Pam, recharging him and letting the stress of his job fade away. Pam, who ran her office but wasn’t the boss, always said it was like coming out of the closet when she put the collar around his neck, channeling her own needs into fulfilling his. Clint couldn’t even hope of having something like they did, the trust between them so deep that they didn’t care what anyone else thought.

“Have you met the newest member?” Pam asked. Roger’s face changed, and Clint could see the corporate hard ass shadowed there for a moment. “I do believe he wandered off towards the kitchen. Had that nice man in tow, Jason’s guest. What was his name, dear?”

“I didn’t get a name. I made us late remember? That conference call to Zurich.” Roger tilted his head back and gazed adoringly up at her.

“I certainly have not forgotten, dear. As soon as we have some of Mel’s delicious creation, you’ll get your punishment.” No threat, just a loving assertion as she ran a hand down the side of his neck. He shivered slightly and flexed his feet as if he could already feel the wooden stick descending on their bare soles.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, eyes half-closed now. “Thank you.”

“Run check for me, will you Clint? I find I’m growing impatient.” Pam didn’t look up at him, and Clint knew when to slide away quietly, leaving the two of them in their blissful haze.  Across the hall was the dining room – small tables and comfortable chairs, some occupied with people who nodded or waved greetings – and he passed through on his way into the kitchen where an older Asian woman was stirring pots and talking to a couple of people sitting at little round wrought iron tables. Bowls were laid out on a marble countertop bar, ready to be filled.

“Clint! There you are. Hope you’re hungry. These vultures are about done waiting,” she said, waving a spatula in his direction. The whole room smelled of chilies and cilantro and lemongrass, and Clint’s stomach growled loud enough for the woman to hear. “Good. I made it extra spicy just for you,” she laughed.

Bypassing the bar, Clint reached her a bowl and helped her ladle up the soup, sitting the fragrant offerings on the countertop where more people began passing them out along with the platter of flatbread Mel had already arranged. When he snuck a taste from a passing bowl, she smacked his hand with her wooden spoon none too lightly.

“Careful there, Mel, I might get the wrong idea,” he joked. She pushed him away with one generous size fourteen hip before she dished him up his own bowl, larger than the rest, putting it down on the island behind her.

“Honey, you take that bad boy thing right on out of here. I’m onto you.” For him, she made a bowl of jasmine rice and added bread hot from the grill. “You sit your fine ass down and tell me where you’ve been.”

Melissa Yo was an anomaly; she’d wandered into their lives one day and simply stayed. Her family were immigrants who came to New York City when she was just a baby.  At her parent’s feet she learned that hard work paid off, and she’d decided her own course early in high school, enrolling in culinary training programs then working as a glorified dishwasher in a couple kitchens before graduating to sous chef and line cook. Somewhere along the way, she started cooking for family parties, then church events, and one day she did a catering job for a baby shower Pam was invited to and the rest, they say was history. Mel had arrived on the doorstep early one morning, waking Reisa, made the best chicken and waffles any of them had ever tasted then demanded the whole kitchen be overhauled. She had never left. When the Cordon Bleu didn’t admit her, one call from Roger had taken care of it, and now she routinely had offers for higher paying jobs. One member had promised that she’d have her own restaurant, but she stayed, she said, to take care of this motley crew.

Leaning his elbows on the counter, Clint spooned up a large shrimp and vegetables with the savory broth and blew on it to cool it down. The chilies tickled his nose and he had time to swallow, think ‘that’s not that bad,’ and then the burn hit him in the back of his throat, eyes watering before it dissipated at just the right time. A spoonful of rice helped, along with a long drink of the Thai tea Mel sat in front of him, and he was ready for the scallop that was beckoning him.

“Good, God, Mel, marry me already and put me out of my misery,” he begged, then coughed when the air hit his mouth and the spices tingled. “I’ll treat you like a queen.”

“Oh, ho, you just want me for my food, which is good, I’ll give you that,” she laughed, keeping up with the steady flow of familiar faces lured by the scent of the soup. “But, I’m too used to being in control. Plus, I know exactly what you’re looking for …” She wiggled her butt to underscore her point.

The food was the best he’d had in a solid month of traveling so he ate slowly, savoring the taste, nodding hello to the others as Mel hummed while she worked, dancing to her own music. The exhaustion from the last mission faded under the onslaught of spice and friendship and a sense of contentment; maybe, he thought, he should always drop by when he got back in town and eat in Mel’s kitchen. 

“Ah, the food here is more than passable,” a new voice said. “Soup? It does smell good, don’t you think?”

Clint stood and picked up his almost empty bowl to take to the sink, putting his back to the man coming through the doorway. Mel’s humming stopped and she stilled, tension running through her body, but she scooped up another two bowls and placed them on the bar.  This had to be him, Patroni, and just like Clint expected, the food had drawn him from whatever corner he was hiding in.  Readying his game face, Clint prepared for the first contact.

“Is that Thai? I like spicy things.”

The second voice cut into Clint and settled right in his gut, those tones so recognizable even if they weren’t in his ear, issuing orders. What were the odds, he thought, that Phil Coulson would be the one they sent undercover?  And why in the hell would Coulson take this job? He should be the one in the van, linked in through comm units; from what Clint knew, Coulson was supposed to take things easy for a while longer, Fury not happy about Coulson insisting on getting out in the field so soon.  Not that it surprised Clint; years on Strike Team Delta with Phil as his handler had taught him just how resilient the man was. That’s why Clint hadn’t believed the story when Stark and company had insisted Coulson was dead; Coulson would come back from hell itself if his people needed extraction.

Patroni, from what Reisa had told him, was clearly an aggressive son-of-a-bitch, and he’d be looking for an easy-to-manipulate sub, not a kick ass ex-marine like Phil with a quirky sense of humor and an unflappable demeanor. Before the Battle of New York and the whole “gee, you’re an Avenger now,” this was the type of job Clint would have been given since everyone believed that he was a submissive anyway. Not that he could blame them after he was laid up for six weeks with a broken jaw from one notorious incident in Baltimore not long after he joined the agency. It didn’t help that Clint kept his personal life his own, not sharing this part of his world with anyone except Natasha who, in a very creepy stalker-like way, had simply shown up at Reisa’s door one evening to give her the shovel speech, thinking Clint was sleeping with her. The two women had bonded and become the best of friends, a fact that still made Clint lay awake at night sometimes worrying about the implications.

His presence was going to be a surprise since he was home two days early; best to just rip the band aid off rather than drag it out. The problem was Coulson learning Clint’s secret life; Clint had never done anything about the lingering desire he felt for his ex-handler. Now that he was with the Avengers and Coulson off doing other things, the whole issue had seemed moot.

“Go get your man,” Mel whispered in his ear as she crossed to the sink and dropped a sauté pan in the deep side. At Clint’s look, she simply raised an eyebrow. “What? You sit here and I’m not supposed to listen when you pour out your troubles? You described him to a tee. Just be sure and kick that other jackass out on his ear first.”

“Thanks, Mel.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “For the food and the advice.”

He turned then, thought he was prepared, but he wasn’t, not for either them. He knew the man who was calling himself Patroni; Clint had seen him once through a rifle scope, and the man had lived because he was not Clint’s target at the time. Italian, the man was swarthy, with dark curly hair, a thick mustache and beard. A chemist who sold his services and formulas to the highest bidder, rumor had it he was currently marketing a neurotransmitter that could alter even the Hulk’s brain chemistry. Now it made perfect sense why SHIELD was after him; too many want-to-be mad scientists making drugs that turn regular people into something else. 

Keeping the recognition off his face was the easiest task; not reacting to Coulson was a different matter. He was wearing those damn black glasses that made him look like a sexy professor, a light cardigan hanging open over a simple t-shirt and jeans. All good quality, but nothing like Coulson’s usual suit. Clint couldn’t stop his gaze from hovering for a second too long, taking in the open smile that was far too enticing for Clint’s liking. The hell with it, he thought; may as well just go with the strategy of making Patroni jealous. Clint looked Coulson over from head to toe and let a smirk curl up the edges of his mouth.

“Well, this is awkward,” Clint drawled. “I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. You’re Jason’s friend.” They’d worked together too long; it was like dancing with his favorite partner. Coulson always could follow a lead. Maybe that should have been a clue.

“William. We met at the coffee shop on 64th Street.” He held out his hand, a hesitancy there unlike himself. Eyes flicked downwards, not meeting Clint’s fully; the tiny action stirred Clint, fed the part of him that wanted. He let his interest show and wondered if Coulson could tell it wasn’t pretend.

“Right. Sorry.” He came around the bar, and his fingers touched skin first, his calloused tips sliding across, their palms fitting together like two halves of a whole. He held Coulson’s hand just a few seconds too long, rubbing a circle on the inside of his wrist with his forefinger and staring into blue eyes made bigger by lens. The tiny tells stirred something deep inside of him, the ever so slight widening of Coulson’s eyes, the small clench of his fingers against the back of Clint’s hand. Those jolts of awareness Clint was feeling? Coulson must be feeling them too. He pulled his hand away, slowly, surreptitiously watching Petroni as he did. The man was not happy with this turn of events. “How’s Jason?”

“In Madrid, drinking red wine, I imagine.” Coulson had picked up on Patroni’s response, so he shrugged off the question and kept his eyes on Clint instead, adding the slightest hitch before the word imagine. Thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets, Coulson hunched his shoulders ever so slightly, subtly submitting to Clint already.

“And you are?” Patroni inserted himself into the conversation, physically stepping forward until he was between the other two men. From his place behind, Coulson raised one eyebrow, safely out of Patroni’s line of sight. The implication was clear; report, Barton, or what the hell are you doing here?

“Clint.” He answered, but looked right over Patroni’s shoulder as he did, ignoring the other man’s challenge. Treat it like a seduction, he told himself, as if he was determined to get Phil in bed before the night was over. Or nice and tied up. Okay, that worked for him. Maybe a little too well.

“Andre Patroni.” This time, Clint had to shake the outstretched hand. The large gold ring was cold as Patroni squeezed hard. That attempt to establish dominance told Clint all he needed to know about the man.

“Nice to meet you, Andy.” Clint didn’t mention the pressure on his fingers, simply turning his wrist and breaking the hold in one smooth move. Wind him up and see if he broke; angry bullies more easily let things slip.

“I’ve heard about you,” Patroni continued, eyes narrowed and focused on Clint. “Everyone here sings your praises, it seems. Even the cook makes your favorite dish when you deign to drop by. Nice to finally have a face to go with the reputation.”

Ah, Reisa had been doing her part to build Clint up as a threat; now Clint had to get Petroni to violate a house rule and he’d be out on his ear. At least that had been the plan. With SHIELD involved, he also had to determine what the man was up to in New York. He’d bet anything that Coulson had a tracker to plant on the chemist.

“Oh, well, we’re like family around here,” Clint replied. “We look out for each other.”  Petroni didn’t flinch under Clint’s hard gaze. Coulson picked up his bowl and spoon, the movement breaking the stare.

“This smells delightful, Mel.” Phil sniffed the steam and smiled, acting the innocent bystander to perfection. “I can’t wait to try some.”

“Be sure and get some bread to go with it and have Ellen get you a drink,” Mel replied. “Clint, carry that plate in with them, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clint picked up the bread and took the lead, knowing Coulson would be right behind him; he usurped Patroni’s position by picking a seat in the dining area and settling Coulson in a chair with a view of both doorways. He slid his own chair around so his back was to the corner and their knees could touch under the glass top of the small wrought iron table, leaving Patroni with his back to the main room. “Ellen.” He motioned the woman over; she was in her forties, wearing sedate black slacks and a white tunic blouse. The smile she gave Clint was honest and open; when she glanced at Patroni, her brown eyes shuttered closed.

“You not eating?” she asked. “Mel will be upset.”

“Already had a full bowl, but might go back for seconds.” Clint arranged the plates on the table, subtly taking charge. “Could you get us some drinks? Whiskey for me, and Will?” He braced an elbow on the table and rested his face in his palm, turning so he could look at Coulson.

“Whiskey, neat.” Coulson blinked and added in a soft voice. “Thank you.”

“Bourbon, Four Roses if you have it,” Patroni ordered. Ellen bobbed her head in agreement and went to pour the drinks.

“So, Andy, how do you like the place so far?” Clint tossed a question at the man to get him talking about himself.

“Acceptable. To be honest, I expected much more from what I was told, but the equipment here is high quality even if the entertainment is low-key.” Preening a bit, Patroni settled back into his seat, happy to expound upon his favorite subject, himself. “Too many rules, if you ask me. Life is for those who take risks, not those who stay safe. It is that edge that makes it worthwhile, the danger of falling over into savagery, don’t you agree? If there’s no pain, there’s no pleasure, so why bother?”

“Seems to me that trust is an important part,” Clint offered, taking the tumbler of dark caramel colored liquor from Ellen; Patroni passed one to Coulson and took the last for himself. “Falling is best when you know your partner will catch you, when you trust them with everything. Without that, it’s just some aches and pains, a temporary respite. What do you think, Will? Like what you see?”

Coulson cleared his throat and took a sip of his whiskey, a light blush staining his cheeks. Clint wasn’t trying to be subtle and Coulson was pulling off his part well. “Well, I mean, from my perspective, it’s not so much the pain as the letting go, letting someone else take charge of everything. I’m an actuary, work for a big insurance company, and I’m the manager of the department. Lots of responsibility and so many details and the paperwork.” He laughed, an easy sound that stirred Clint’s insides; he wanted to hear it again and again. “You have no idea how hard it is to get junior staff to turn in the right forms.” A spoonful of soup, and he continued. “Trust is vital if I’m going to give the reins to anyone else; I need to be comfortable to do that.”

“Of course.” Patroni patted Coulson’s hand, sloshing a little soup out onto the place mat. “Comfortable is a good word for this place.” Clint bit his lip to stop from smirking at the man’s attempts at seduction. Patroni’s anger was showing, taking out his game. Bruce could teach this guy a thing or two. “And you, Clint? What is it you do?”

Ah, the inquisition had begun. Never mind that you didn’t ask personal questions at Reisa’s; information volunteered was fine, but no probing into people’s backgrounds. That was sacrosanct. People came here for many different reasons, some to get away from their daily lives. “I’m a consultant, help businesses enter emerging markets in other countries. Lots of travel, red tape and cultural differences, crappy hotel rooms, palms to grease … I think I can sympathize with the paperwork problem, Will.” He bumped knees with Coulson, sliding his thigh in tighter. Coulson intently worked on his soup, keeping his eyes down. “Certainly makes finding a partner that much more difficult when you’re never home.”

“Clint, dear, there you are,” Pam came up to the table, Roger just behind. He was already aroused, eyes a little glassy from whatever they’d been up to. “We are off to the play room for Roger’s punishment. There’s not any chance of seeing you there tonight? We were just thinking about how long it’s been since you’ve graced us with your handiwork.” She turned to Patroni and Coulson. “Clint is an artist with a whip. Always hits, never misses, so intricate and creative. He’s truly something to behold.”

A sharp intake of air from Coulson; his eyelids fluttered down, and he gripped his spoon which hovered above the bowl. When he opened his eyes again, a red flush was spreading from under his t-shirt and he looked right at Clint with such longing on his face that Clint’s mouth went dry and his cock grew hard, pressing against the inseam of his jeans.  Either Coulson really was a sub, a needy one at that, probably completely repressed, or he was one hell of an actor. There was no way Coulson was a sub. The man was always in charge, handled the strangest of events with aplomb, hard ass rule follower by the book … oh, god, what if it was true?

“Not tonight, I don’t think.” Clint never took his eyes off of Coulson. “Maybe soon, though.”

“We’ll hold you to that, dear,” Pam said. “Next time.” She took Roger by the hand and led him towards the front stairs.

Patroni drained his glass. He waved the empty at Ellen as she came back through the door. “Another drink?” He asked the other two.

Clint’s glass was emptier than Coulson’s who was almost at the bottom of his soup bowl. “Would you like more soup? Let me take care of that.” Clint asked, leaning over and covering the back of Coulson’s hand with his own, lightly trapping his wrist, fingers resting right on the pulse point. Coulson’s breathing quickened, staring down at the place where their skin met, but Clint also caught the other signs, the dilation of Coulson’s eyes and the increasing in heart rate. Patroni noticed and his expression darkened. A good Dom always took care of his sub; Clint was goading Patroni by slipping into that role.

“It is easier for me,” Patroni grabbed the bowl and stood, a storm brewing in his dark eyes. He pivoted and walked back into the kitchen.

For a few very quick heartbeats, neither one of them spoke then Coulson said, “I tapped out.” Clint let out a breath and relaxed just a little. That meant there was no one actively listening; instead, Coulson would contact backup through an established code, tapping on the receiver. Sometimes jobs were of a sensitive nature or they might not be able to speak freely – and being in a BDSM club would be a perfect example, especially if the agent assumed there might be certain behaviors involved.

Clint settled for a nod; knowing Mel, she’d delay Patroni as long as possible, but he’d be back all too soon. “Game plan?”

“Tracker in his bourbon, already done, sale going down Sunday.” Coulson was good. Clint hadn’t even seen him drop it in the glass. “Why keep this a secret?”

They spoke in half sentences, finishing each other’s thoughts like always. “Privacy, I guess. Didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Me?” Was that hurt in his voice?

“Especially not you.” Clint felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest, he was so close to blurting out the truth.

“Why?” Coulson turned his hand under Clint’s – he hadn’t moved it, the two of them still connected – and curled his fingers around Clint’s wrist. There it was, the opportunity to come clean. He closed his eyes for two seconds, then opened them again, shifting to widen his legs and draw Coulson’s knee between his as he spoke.

“Because there’s no good way to tell your bad ass majorly dominant boss that you want to tie him up and whip him until he screams your name.” That was jumping in with both feet, wasn’t it?

“Fuck,” Coulson sat back in his chair and groaned like the breath had been knocked out of him. “So, you’re not a sub then?”

“Confused for a while, but Reisa got me straightened out eventually.” He tightened his hold on Coulson’s wrist, fingers pressing into the skin. “You’re not a dom?”

“All work makes Phil a dull man,” he replied “But all I seem to have time for is work; I don’t want to take it into the bedroom. Reisa’s from a circus family.”

“Oh, god, not you too. Nat’s bad enough,” Clint rolled his eyes; that Natasha knew did not surprise Coulson. A second of silence fell and Coulson took another sip of his whiskey. Their hands were still intertwined, and Clint could feel both their heartbeats, faster and engaged. “Damn stupid plan sending you in here. How long has it been for you?”

“Too long. No time with rehab and all that, and I couldn’t find the right person,” Coulson admitted, stroking his fingers on the tender inside of Clint’s palm. “So … what kind of whip?”

Clint looked into those blue eyes and toppled over, gone so fast he couldn’t believe it and he didn’t try to contain the smile that spread across his face. “Well, now, you haven’t been to my place have you? Did most of the work myself; there’s a special room with all sorts of toys including a collection of silk ties. See, I’ve had this little kink ever since Atlanta. ”

Coulson had been taken hostage for a grand total of seventeen minutes, just long enough for the A.I.M. guys to string him up from an iron pipe with his own tie. Coulson in his suit, arms above his head – Clint had been the first one to find him. Might as well admit what that image did for his libido.

“Good God, Clint.” Coulson bit his lower lip and Clint had an overwhelming urge to lean across the table and kiss the hell out of the man. “Why didn’t we tell each other?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Patroni’s back in the kitchen door, still talking to Mel. They had only seconds left.  This was the point of no return. He screwed up his courage and whispered, “We’ll start slow, later tonight, at my place … Phil.” God, but saying his name was better than the most expensive liquor or the sweetest wine on his lips. Clint want to just repeat it, taste it, get to know the flavor of those sounds, the nuances of emotion and need that could be conveyed in that one syllable.

“The cook insisted I wait for these,” Patroni practically dropped the plate of cookies in front of Clint; as he slid the bowl of soup towards Phil, the edge collided with Phil’s glass, knocking it over. Alcohol spilled and they all jumped back, cloth napkins flying to catch the brown liquid. “Forgive me.” Patroni didn’t sound repentant; he was angry at Mel for keeping him away from the table too long and didn’t care.  Clint grabbed the cookie plate out of the way and lifted up the bowl for Phil to wipe under it.

“It’s fine, really.” Phil stood up, scooting back his chair to catch the last of it; fortunately, none of the liquid escaped the edge. Ellen was there before Clint even thought about asking her. She took the wet napkins, wiped the table down, and left a new drink in short order.

“Well, the wait was worth it; those are Mel’s special oatmeal raisin bourbon cookies.” Clint took one, juggling the warm circle before taking a big bite. “These are worth the price of admission.”

“Cookies?” Patroni was not impressed, but he took one anyway, sniffing at it before nibbling an edge. “Not terrible. I’ve had better.” That burned Clint like nothing else the man had said. Anyone who’d down another person just to make themselves look better? Damn if Mel wasn’t worth twenty times this asshole. 

“These are amazing,” Phil offered, chasing a bite with the smooth whiskey. “I thought the soup was wonderful, but these would tempt even Captain America to the dark side.”  The man did have a wicked sense of humor, Clint gave him that as he grabbed a second cookie for himself.

“So Andy, what do you do?” To hell with etiquette and to hell with this guy. There had been plenty of time for the tracer to start transmitting so Clint was done with him. Time for the exit strategy. Clint’s cock certainly agreed it was past time for some action … just a different kind.

“Pharmaceuticals.” Patroni bit off the answer. “And my name is Andre.”

“Clint. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?” Reisa swept into the room, and all heads turned, her presence demanding attention. From her casual mahogany colored curls that spilled over her bare shoulders to her perfect red manicured toes that peeped out of her Manolo Blahniks, she was the epitome of the lady of the house.  She wore an understated black dress, perfectly tailored to fit her curves, the dark fabric accenting her porcelain skin. Running her hand along Clint’s shoulders, she stood over him, fingers settling on his biceps, stroking the soft leather of his jacket.

“Yes, ma’am.” Clint let Reisa lead; he’d learned long ago that she understood people much better than he did, and that was saying quite a lot. “I’ve been neglecting you. Work isn’t an excuse.”

“Work I could excuse.” Her voice was low and sexy as her red lips brushed the curve of his ear. “But here I find you with new people and you let them drink the off-the-shelf liquor. Ellen! Bring us the Balvenie and four glasses.” She reached past Clint, her breast pressing against his back, tendrils of her hair brushing his cheek, and took a cookie. “Mel spoils you.”

“Yes, ma’am, she does. But I have offered to make an honest woman of her if she’d have me.” He noticed Phil kept quiet, nursing his drink and soup, but Reisa did have that effect on people. “She keeps turning me down.”

“Smart woman.” Reisa picked up Clint’s glass and plucked Phil’s from his hand, passed them off to Ellen, and switched them out for new ones filled with a finger of aromatic scotch. “Now, a toast, eh? To new friends and a long-awaited beginning.”

Clint raised his glass. Patroni did too, his face thunderous and unhappy at the disruption of his evening, and they clinked them together before taking a sip of the complex and peaty drink. Wrapped around his tumbler, Phil’s hand trembled slightly, and Clint’s eyes’ flew up, taking in the minute differences. Blue eyes were a little glazed around the edges, flags of heat starting in Phil’s cheeks, and he swallowed nervously as he sought out Clint. Something was wrong.

“However, you, Mr. Patroni, will make your way out of my establishment and not come back. Your membership is hereby revoked; I will wire a refund to your bank first thing in the morning.” Reisa’s voice was laced with a steely command that made even Patroni sink back before he bristled and sputtered.

“You have no right to …” he started, slamming his palms on the table and shoving his chair backwards. His goal was to tower over Reisa, intimidate her, but she had too much practice dealing with men like him to cower. Instead, she held Clint down when he started to surge up, fists already clenched for the first punch.

“Read your contract. Use of any unlicensed or non-prescribed drugs without the consent of the all parties involved is grounds for instant dismissal. Whatever you slipped into William’s drink? You had better hope it’s nothing dangerous or you’ll find yourself brought up on charges by New York’s finest. Oh, and I have the best lawyer in town on retainer, so don’t think to fight it.”

Clint wanted to kill the bastard, but Phil reached for him and he forgot about Patroni, twining his fingers with Phil’s. His pulse was thready, his hand clammy, and he was breathing harder now.

“You bitch.” Patroni stared her down, too dumb to know when he was beaten. “You’ve got nothing on me. I’ll own this place.”

“Indeed?” She arched an eyebrow towards him, regal in her bearing. Gavin hovered in the doorway and Mel appeared from the kitchen. Clint had seen one of the NYPD’s best forensic specialists in the salon earlier.  “We have the drink you poisoned and will get a sample of Will’s blood. Plus the video footage that shows you adding it in? You should never play poker, Andre. You don’t have the temperament for it. Tell me what you used and I’ll let you walk out of here. You won’t be able to join any club of repute in the U.S., mind you, but you won’t be in jail either.”

Patroni seemed like he was going to fight and Clint desperately wanted him to, but the man thought better of it, pulled himself together and stepped back, straightening his jacket as he did. “It is nothing, just a simple combination that increases desire and performance. Lovely little cocktail specifically for submissives– heightens the senses and increases stamina. My own blend, mind you. It will wear off in four to six hours depending upon how fast he burns it off.” With a dismissive glance, he turned to Phil. “Enjoy yourself with your new friend.”

With one last look of hatred at Clint, he spun on his heel and left, Gavin following close behind him. Clint saw Pam and Roger in the hallway and Ellen standing by the bar, Phil’s whiskey still in the glass. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to go after Patroni and beat him senseless, but Phil needed him here.

“Ellen, get that whiskey in a container. Pam, would you get Brian from the play room?” Reisa issued orders like a general in the field and everyone jumped to follow them.  Phil put a hand on Clint’s arm.

“Clint, can you?” he said with a little slur in his voice; Clint knew immediately what Phil wanted. Taking the earpiece, Clint tapped a quick rhythm and a voice Clint had only heard twice before immediately answered.

“What’s happening?” Sitwell was asking. “The target has just been escorted out the front door.”

“He slipped something in Phil’s drink,” Clint said. “We’ve got the situation contained in here. Tracer is in effect; follow with caution. He’s pissed off right now because we stymied his plans for the evening.”

 “Barton?” Jasper sounded confused. “What’s going on? Does Phil need help?”

“No evac,” Phil shook his head, magically intuiting what the team was asking. “I didn’t drink much of it, so I should be fine.”

“And this is where I get to give you the lecture on going to medical, right? Want me to make you go?” Clint didn’t stop the steel that crept into his voice, nor did he notice the way Phil reacted, the shivers and the dilated pupils that stared back at him. Phil seriously had a thing for being given orders.

“This is what he’s peddling; we know what it does. It will wear off, just like he said.  There’s nothing to be done until then. They’ll just put me in a room and call the contact listed on my HR344-7R,” Phil argued. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” Phil tried to joke, but he felt warm to Clint’s touch.

“What the fuck is an HR344-7R?” Clint asked. Phil and his damn forms and regulations.

“Pre-authorization of Consent in Altered States,” Stilwell supplied in his ear. “The sex pollen form. Oh, God, he dosed Phil? Stuff’s like super Viagra without any inhibitions; people can’t stop anything that popped in their head from coming out of their mouth. Did you get a sample?”

“A sample will be out in just a few minutes.” Clint looked at Phil.

“I don’t want anyone to hear what I’d say,” Phil said. “Just find me a room and shut the door.”

“I can call Natasha,” Reisa answered. She turned from where she was talking to a wiry haired short man, Brian Rogstein, the forensics expert. He held Phil’s whiskey to the light; what looked like a straw he’d inserted was turning colors.

“No,” Phil objected. “Honestly, I just need to sleep it off. Tell them to check the tracer then stand down. I’ll check in at 07:00.”

Clint relayed the message; Reisa would send out a sample of Phil’s blood and the doctored drink.

“Good news,” Brian said looking over the edge of his wire rimmed glasses to read the results. “It appears to be in the same class of street drugs as sexstasy.  It’s got ecstasy to rev up the libido inhibitions plus Viagra to enhance performance. I’ll have to order a full tox scan to determine exactly what he meant about his own spin on it, but since Will only drank a little bit, he should be okay. Just very, um, interested and compliant for a while. God, I’d hate to see a revved up something like this hit the streets.”

“You’ll find a neural inhibitor, I’d imagine.” Phil offered – yeah, his inhibitions seemed to be disappearing if he was talking this freely. Not to mention the wandering hand that had found its way down to Clint’s ass and was resting on the fold where ass met thigh. 

“How long has it been?” Reisa asked Phil. He stiffened and turned his body towards Clint, the tremors growing worse.

“I’m fine.” That was the Coulson voice, the one he used to command agents in the field. Reisa, however, was having none of it.

“How long?” Despite the firm voice, her eyes were kind as she caught Phil’s arm, the one he was not currently winding around Clint’s waist, moving closer to Clint’s side. Turns out, Phil was a clinger. Clint didn’t mind.

“That’s not important.” Now Phil was arguing with her.

“Phil.” Clint let the word roll into Phil’s ear, work into his brain and hit his gut. “Tell me. How long?”

“Stupid. I knew it was a bad call for me to take this assignment.” He was still fighting letting go, Clint knew, but his health was at stake. “Always a risk.”

“Phil.” This time he said it lovingly, let his naked emotions hang on the sound. Phil rested his forehead on Clint’s shoulder and shuddered at the contact as Clint’s arms engulfed him.

“Four and a half years, give or take.”  Phil sighed, relaxing a little at the confession.

“Don’t worry,” Clint said, stroking a hand through Phil’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.” Phil raised his head up. “Tell me what …” he took a couple breaths, tried to rein himself in. “Orders. I need orders.”

That, Clint could do. “Okay, agent. Take off your sweater.” He nodded to Brian who had produced a needle. It required a little bit of logistics to keep a hand on Phil as he shed his sweater, but the contact was necessary to calm him. Clint understood it would be all too easy for Phil to tumble into a sub drop, the sudden fall that happened when brain chemistry got out of balance. The highs were great – and Clint had chased a lot of them, finding people willing to hit him harder and leave deeper marks – but the crash that followed had gotten worse each time. That was back when he didn’t understand what he really wanted was someone to give themselves to him, to offer him unconditional surrender. A good Dom always took care of their sub, made sure they knew they were loved and protected and, in return, the Dom had someone who gave them complete and utter trust. If Phil had gone that long repressing his desires, not getting what he needed, just the tiniest push would be enough to send him into a drop. If Phil didn’t deal with this, he could be in real trouble. Thank God Reisa had intervened before he drank any more than a sip.

“Brian’s going to take some blood,” Clint explained, keeping his voice calm, just like Coulson always did when they were in the field together. “Jasper will get these analyzed immediately. Wouldn’t that burn Patroni’s butt if he went to sell it and we had already made it obsolete?”

The words were doing their job; Phil leaned his head back onto Clint’s shoulder, closing his eyes and taking long deep breaths to control his body’s reaction. As soon as Brian was finished, Clint helped Phil stand up.

“Let’s go home,” Clint said without thinking. A small moan fell from Phil’s mouth, and he turned, his hands splayed on the soft cotton of Clint’s shirt, and his eyes, blown wide with lust, stared into Clint’s blue-grey ones.

“Your place?” Phil murmured. The touch sent tendrils of desire through Clint; he wanted him, wanted him badly, but Phil was in no condition to consent, and that was the problem.

“Phil. You’re under the influence.” He argued, as much for himself as for Phil.

“HR344-7R.” Phil’s hands were wandering along the muscles of Clint’s stomach. “Already said yes.”

“What?” Clint couldn’t think straight, not with Phil so close, so needy, and so open.

“I listed you.”  Phil grinned, that smirk he had; so few people knew just how much of a smartass Phil really was.  “Take me home. That’s an order, agent.”

“Holy hell, Phil,” Clint whispered. “I thought you wanted me to give the orders.”

“Last one. I promise.” He surged forward, closing the distance, covering Clint’s lips with his, pulling him into a kiss.

Clint knew what falling off a building was like. Hell, he’d fallen off all sorts of things, knew intimately the feel of the air rushing past, the inescapable tug of gravity, the stark terror of this being the time he didn’t stop until the ground came up to meet him. One time, he’d dived off the side of a cruise ship into choppy waters of a passing storm, plunging down, slicing into the waves and turning in the calm water below. Kissing Phil was like all of that and more. They were two bodies circling each other, caught in the gravitational pull, and this seemed all too inevitable. One press of lips and Clint was lost; at some level, he’d always known that Phil would be like this, a craving that, once started, would never end. He needed more, to take care of Phil, be his everything, never let him go. They kissed like old lovers who knew exactly how to tilt their heads and fit their bodies together. Like thirsty men, denied for so long, taking their first long drink of each other’s mouth. Like virgins who had never tasted another, holding out for what seemed an eternity to have this perfect moment. And they kissed all consuming, completely unaware of anyone else but themselves, conscious only of the brushes of fingers and hands and thighs as they moved closer together.

“Fuck,” Clint moaned when they finally broke apart. He leaned his forehead against Phil’s as they caught their breath.

“Alright, gentlemen, your cab is here,” Reisa touched Clint’s shoulder then ruffled his hair. “Much as I’m enjoying watching this very romantic conclusion to the evening, I’m going to toss you out. This won’t be easy for you, Clint, but set the boundaries and keep things simple. Lots of contact and praise; your needs will have to wait, understand?” Clint nodded as he looped his arm around Phil’s waist, helping him towards the door. “And Philip? You’re part of the family now. I expect to see you both back here … after you get things worked out, of course.”

Phil looked dazed, the drug kicking into high gear, and Clint got them moving, Gavin seeing them out. The taxi was waiting, Jake holding the door open, and Phil gladly slid in the back seat first, curling up against Clint as soon as he was inside. The ride was mercifully short; Phil gave a little moan every time they hit a bump or turned a corner, trembling with each slide of body against body. The driver waved them out when he stopped, Jake having already paid him for the fare. Entering the brownstone, Clint took them through security and shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it on the newel post of the stairs, Phil watching it all. Clint couldn’t imagine what it was like, the rollercoaster of emotions. He’d taken a variety of drugs during his career, sometimes while undercover and sometimes just as an escape. You never knew when you might be compromised and it was best to learn how your body reacted so you had a chance of controlling the situation.  Ecstasy was a club drug, and he’d taken a hit of it once as part of his cover while at a rave in L.A.  He’d ended up on stage, singing until his voice was raw, and, thankfully, sex didn’t enter the picture even though he was more than interested.  As for Viagra, well, there was one time he took it by accident and wasn’t that a long, very hard, very frustrating international flight. 

“So, here we are,” Clint said as Phil stood in the front hallway. For all of his smart mouth and sass, Clint didn’t know what to say now that Phil was standing here. Suddenly, he was unsure of what came next; no matter how much he wanted it, sex with Phil was going to complicate both of their lives. And drug fueled, submissive sex? Yeah, that was a game changer.

“G-g-getting cold feet, Barton?” Phil stammered a little, rubbing his bare arms with his hands. He hadn’t put his sweater back on, and they’d left it at Reisa’s.

“No, not really, just, I mean …” God, it was like the words were jumbled between his brain and his mouth. “This matters, okay. A lot. You matter.”

“In case I neglected to make it clear,” Phil reached for Clint, hooking his fingers in the belt loops of Clint’s jeans. “There’s no good way to tell your smart-mouthed, completely submissive asset that you want him to tie you up and fuck you until you beg for more. At least until you realize he’s not a sub at all.”

“Holy hell. Absolutely no filters.” Clint caught Phil’s hands and pulled him towards the stairs. 

“Play room?” Phil raised an eyebrow in question as they passed the first landing.

“Not tonight. Later we’ll talk about limits and scenes and safe words. Right now, we’ll keep it simple,” Clint replied, turning them up the second set of stairs to the top floor. Through the French doors and into the master suite, he crossed past the four poster king size bed, heavy wood ornately carved. It was one of his favorite pieces, an antique that he’d found in Morocco and had shipped back. A tidy piece of change, but the bed made the whole room. He’d matched the grain with side tables and the smaller round one by the microsuede lounge. Nat had laughed and told him it was a fainting couch, but the damn thing was the most comfortable seat in the whole house; he often sat there, using the lap desk to do his paperwork and watch the big screen TV on the opposite wall. There was a small fridge with a bar – yeah, he didn’t like running up and down the stairs – and he took out a bottle of water and handed it over to Phil before pouring himself some whiskey. “Drink.  You need to keep hydrated. That’s a danger with ecstasy. You need to tell me if you feel odd or sick.”

“Well, at the moment, I’m feeling no pain, and that’s a damn shame.” Phil took off the cap and drank a long gulp; Clint couldn’t help but watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Being high aside, I can live with the open-mouth-speak-my-mind part and the party-now impulse. Those are not the most pressing issues, I can assure you.” He palmed himself through his slacks, adjusting the seam to make more room; the friction of his own hand made him groan.

“That’s a good place to start then,” Clint decided, settling on a course of action. There was no way he was going to jump into a scene with Phil in this state. They’d take a different tack tonight; trust and comfort and easing Phil into subspace if he could. Swinging a leg over the chaise, he settled against the back, straddling the long bench, drink in hand. From toes to head, he looked Phil over, letting the heat he felt building inside of him show in his gaze. Phil reddened and fidgeted, aware of the change as Clint took the reins. “Why don’t you take off your clothes and get comfortable? There are hangers in the closet. And I want you to say anything that comes to mind tonight. No holding back.”

Phil hesitated, fighting against himself. Giving up was going to be difficult; Clint was going to have to go slow and easy. So he waited until he saw the sag in Phil’s shoulders as he gave up. Sitting on the bench at the end of the bed, first thing Phil did was untie his shoes and set them neatly under the edge. Socks followed, and then he stood and unbuckled his belt. “I don’t think comfortable is what I need right now.”

“So, tell me something you like or don’t like,” Clint directed to get Phil talking, make him think of something else beside the awkwardness of getting naked. “Talk to me.”

Fingers stilled at that familiar phrase then continued, slipping off his jeans and folding them onto the bench. “No handcuffs, metal ones. Too much like work, if you know what I mean. Cords, twine, duct tape … takes me completely out of the mood.”

“Agreed. I feel the same about water sports and cages. Associations that flatten any desire I had going.” Clint sipped and watched, his eyes roving over Phil’s muscular legs and the curve of his ass as he dropped his briefs. So hard and aching already, Phil moaned as the cotton dragged over his cock.

“Silk, on the other hand, I like. No one ever ties me up with silk ropes on a job.” The problem was immediately obvious; Phil’s hands held the edge of his t-shirt, but he wasn’t taking it off. Nude from the waist down, he didn’t seem to be bothered by anything but revealing the scar that Clint knew was there.

“Off, Phil. We hide nothing. I can handle it and I know you can too.” Clint didn’t want to see it, but they had to deal with the past if there was going to be a future. White skin, still puckered around the edges with a hint of red, a long scar along Phil’s breastbone, the exit wound from Loki’s spear. Phil closed his eyes to hide his emotions. “Come here, Phil,” Clint ordered, patting the seat in front of him. Phil turned and the scar on his back was much worse, longer and more jagged. Sitting down, Clint made Phil lean back, aligning their bodies together, Clint’s chest to Phil’s back. Wrapping his arms around Phil, he caught Phil’s hands. Fingers twined, he traced the length of the scar.

“Don’t,” Phil murmured. Tense and shaking, he tried to pull away, but Clint exerted his strength, holding Phil inside the circle of his protection. He trapped Phil’s arms to his side and let him struggle. It was half-hearted, Phil battling his equally obvious desire to submit. Finally, he stilled and sagged back onto Clint.

“This,” Clint said, “is a badge of honor. You went up against a royal bastard and you’re still here. That’s some serious stubborn streak.”

Phil snorted at Clint’s words, but Clint could feel him relax a little more. “You’re full of shit, Barton. I know for a fact you still blame yourself for what Loki did.”

“Oh, I see. You’re going to be a pushy sub aren’t you?” Clint dragged Phil’s hands lower, along the outside of his hips and flattening onto his thighs. Their thumbs slipped into the bend where pelvis met leg, stroking closer and closer. “For your information, I know that I wasn’t in control; he made me the perfect submissive, taking my brain and twisting it. Took me a while to shake it off, but between Natasha and Reisa, they helped me remember who I am.”

“Clint.” Phil bucked into the touch.  “I …”

“I know,” he whispered. “Let me.” He wrapped their hands around Phil’s cock and stroked. “Show me what you like.”

“Right now, anything works,” Phil answered, but he did as asked, twisting his hand just under the head, running his thumb along the leaking slit. His touch was harder than Clint would have started with; Phil wasn’t holding back at all, arching into the motion.  Now Clint copied the moves, thinking about the bottle of lube in the end table drawer to make things easier when Phil caught his bottom lip between his teeth and came without a word. He shook as the pearly liquid splattered on his chest and Clint’s hand.

“That’s good, that’s just what you need. Take care of yourself, that’s what I want you to do.” Clint kept his voice easy and low, praising words tumbling from his mouth. Soothing a palm up and down Phil’s thigh, Clint mixed in a series of light kisses along the curve of Phil’s neck.

“God,” Phil groaned. “That’s not enough.”

He was still hard in Clint’s hand, tremors running through his body, on the ragged edge. Pushing Phil forward, Clint opened the table drawer and took out the bottle of lube. Then he twisted Phil’s arms behind his back and pushed him flat onto the chaise, cheek pressed into the soft fabric. “Don’t move,” Clint ordered. He had his own t-shirt off in seconds, twirling it into a length that he wrapped around Phil’s wrists, binding them together, palms up. With a long groan, Phil thrust against the friction of the seat.

“Yes. Good,” he moaned; Clint knew Phil could get out of the makeshift bond anytime he wanted to … that was part of the beauty of the knot and the soft cloth … but he didn’t make any effort to. Slipping his hands under Phil’s parted thighs, he dragged Phil onto his own legs, elevating Phil’s hips up. The angle made it impossible for Phil to rub against the fabric and his sigh made his unhappiness plain.

“None of that,” Clint said with a swift swat across Phil’s ass, a lovely red handprint appearing in the white skin.

“Fuck.” The word exploded out of Phil’s mouth and his hips bucked up, looking for more of the same. “Do that again.”

“Be good and I will.” Clint meant that as a promise. Later, when the drugs wore off, he’d do whatever made Phil jump like that. “I’ve got other ideas right now.”

The click of the cap earned another moan; the cool lube on his outstretched hands made Phil clamp his thighs tight. As Clint dragged his fingers across the slick palms, Phil’s whole body shook with pure need. Spanning Phil’s ass with his hands, Clint ran his thumbs along the curve, pushing down to circle the tightly clenched muscle. One eased inside, just up to the first knuckle and then back out. Intent on working through the harsh arousal Phil was riding, Clint ignored his own cock pressing along the line of his jeans and ever so slowly breached Phil.

“You remember Brighton? Tiny little town, not much there, just that really good ice cream shop with Dagwood sandwiches and the little hole in the wall Chinese place that made the food to order?” Phil’s voice rose and fell as Clint worked him open, little gasps of breath in between the words.

“Quartermaine and Sitwell, right? Surveillance of that University of Michigan climatologist who thought he could affect the weather with … what was it … pyramids?” Adding a second finger, Clint let his other hand trace the sensitive space just behind Phil’s balls, back and forth in the same rhythm.

“Oh, oh, yes,” Phil lifted his head enough to switch to the other cheek. “Tri-colloidal crystals, he called them. Damn college student lab assistant made Jasper and took the item into the library.”

“Biggest library I’ve ever been in. Put in those extra suspended floors to add more books. Freeze ray gun, yeah … idiot was didn’t even know it worked.” A twist and a third finger went in as Clint found the right spot. Phil cursed and pushed back, trying to work Clint’s fingers in deeper.

“What you did to stop him. Wanted so bad for you to do that to me. Dreamed about it. Jerked off in the shower to just the one phrase.” Phil practically begged, “Say it for me.”

The young man had been terrified after he accidentally froze a student worker. Finger on the trigger, he’d broken down, a full-fledged panic attack that threatened everyone in the building and on the whole campus as the gun went into overload. Phil had been moments behind him, so Clint had no other option but to talk to the kid, to put him down hard. Fortunately, the student quickly submitted as Clint ordered him in strong, soothing tones to hand the gun over, so fast that Clint knew he was an untrained sub.

“You heard that? I thought you were just getting out of the elevator.” Clint had thought he was alone in the room.

“Took … the stairs … didn’t want … to disturb … you.” Phil was breathing fast, and Clint took his balls in hand, tickling them with the very ends of his fingers. “Oh God. Please.”

Clint had whispered the words to relieve the guy’s misery, to drop him into a space where he’d be docile and easy to help. Now, he leaned over, let the bulge of his own erection rub along the inside of Phil’s thigh as he pressed against his prostate again and again.

“Let go. Come for me.”

A low grunt in his throat and Phil was coming again at Clint’s command, cock untouched. This time was longer and Phil jerked as Clint pulled his fingers out, wiping them on his jeans. Clint gave him a few minutes to recover then pushed Phil forward, freeing himself to climb out of the chair.

“Are you hungry?” Clint’s experience with ecstasy was that it made him very munchy … and sex did the same. “I could order take out. Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Pizza …”

“Burger. Juicy, pink in the middle with all the trimmings. And fries. Salty.”  Phil opened his eyes, pulling out of the lethargy and showing interest.

“There’s a pub around the corner, makes the best burgers in the borough. They’ll deliver here.” Clint picked up his starkphone and made the call. Ida answered and seemed more than interested in Clint ordering two burgers, fishing for information about Clint’s guest. She promised thirty minutes to the door.

He made quick work in the bathroom, cleaning up and getting a wet rag, snagging the bottle of water Phil had been drinking from. Then he crouched down and gently cleaned Phil, helping him sit up and scoot back. Almost boneless from the last release, Phil didn’t raise a single objection as Clint murmured encouraging words as he finished. Tossing the rag towards the bathroom, Clint coaxed Phil to finish off the water in long gulps before he laid his head on the curve of the chair’s back. Goosebumps rose on Phil’s skin, so Clint grabbed a soft chenille throw from the end of the bed and wrapped it around Phil.

 “Tell me how you’re feeling.” He sensed that Phil was leveling out, but he wanted to hear it from Phil’s lips.

“Hungry. Not being ruled by my dick but I think this is just a momentary lull.” He adjusted in the seat, his hands trapped behind him, still tied together.

“Lean forward.” Clint lifted Phil’s hands and looped them around the back of the chaise, retying them more securely. His position put his crotch just below eye level to Phil.

“I can take care of that for you.” The words flowed out even as Phil flinched at the straightforwardness. “I mean, I want to. Have for a long time. You could tie my ankles and make me. Tell me to suck you off. Right here.”

“Eat first.” Clint had to keep a tight rein on himself because he wanted that too. Then the security panel lit up; the food was early. “Stay here.”

He snagged a shirt from the drawer and padded down the stairs to grab the brown bags. Phil hadn’t moved when he got back, but his face was flushed and his chest was rising and falling.

“Phil.” Command in his voice made Phil’s eyes dart to meet his; the drug was back in full force. “Listen to me. Close your eyes.” Seconds ticked by and Phil’s lids slowly lowered. “Take a deep breath, count of four in and four out.” Bags on the table, Clint walked to his closet and opened a drawer. “That’s good. You’re doing well. Keep breathing like that until I tell you to stop.”

Fingers first, brushing along Phil’s arm to calm him, letting him get used to Clint’s nearness. Then the shifting of weight as Clint sat down in front of him. “That’s it. I’m here. You’re safe.”  He was settling with the long slow breaths.

Picking up the silk tie, Clint grazed Phil’s cheek with the fabric. As he wound it around Phil’s closed eyes, Phil sighed and the tension seeped out of his muscles. Not really a blindfold, the tie served its purpose of limiting the stimulus Phil was feeling, leaving him reliant upon Clint. “You have to trust me. I’ll take care of you. All you have to do is let go for me.”

“Yes.” Phil nodded. “Please.”

Tracing along Phil’s calf muscle, Clint used a silk rope to secure one ankle to the chaise then the other, leaving Phil with a leg off either side, knees bent and feet on the floor. As each rope tightened, Phil quietened a little more. Taking away the blanket, Clint saw Phil was half-aroused again, his cock curved along his thigh.

“Now, let’s eat, shall we?”

Unpacking the bags, the smell was mouthwatering. A brioche bun, thick patty, layered up with cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a special sauce. Cottage fries were still warm and covered with seasoned salt. He spread the food out on the table, glad to see plastic silverware at the bottom. Cutting into the burger, he smiled as Phil’s head turned his way, sniffing the air. A small bite with a little of everything in his hand, Clint brought his fingers to Phil’s mouth, rubbing the burger along his bottom lip until he parted and took it in.

“Oh, that’s good. Pub food is the best when you’ve been drinking.” Phil was definitely feeling better; when he was shaky, he quit talking.  “That’s what this is like. Tequila shots to the exponential power.”

“Imagine the Hulk on this stuff.” That was a sobering thought. Clint offered him a fry and the noise Phil made went straight to Clint’s cock. He’d just about gotten himself under control; damn food was going to push him over the edge. Then Phil licked the salt from his lips with the tip of his tongue and Clint sat back. “Are the effects wearing off?”

“Comes and goes.” Clint gave him the next bite and paused to eat some of his own. As Clint’s weight shifted, Phil could sense the change, turning his head and listening. Dragging a crisp potato round along the inside of Phil’s thigh, Clint bent down and followed it with his tongue, catching the fry in his mouth. He passed it over to Phil’s mouth, brushing lips as he did. Phil’s cock jumped and a flush crawled up his chest.

“Better now than earlier?” He started the process over again, food from his fingers to feed Phil and then some for himself, this time balancing his burger on Phil’s thigh, making sure to leave grease to lick up. Phil was squirming, trying to keep still, pulling at the restraints.

“I still want to suck your cock.” The words tumbled out of Phil’s mouth then he bit his lip to stop the next thought. “Sorry. I can’t seem to …”

“It’s okay.” Clint offered him more burger to keep his mouth busy. “I said you could say anything, remember? It’s a side effect of the drug. Somehow I imagine that next time I’ll have to order you to say something.”

Swallowing, Phil jumped when Clint trailed juicy sauce down the scar on his chest; when Clint began to suck it off with his mouth, Phil began to babble. “Next time. Yes. I want a next time. Want you to tell me what to do and make me do it. Want you to tell me it’s okay, that I’m still me and you want me.”

“Listen to me.” Clint took Phil’s face in his hands, skimming his fingers along the stubble growing on the jaw line. “As long as you want to do this, we will. You’ll trust me to take care of you and I will. And when you need it, I’ll remind you that I’m the one who sets the rules and you’re the one who obeys. I want this so bad, Phil Coulson. Want to take you apart and make you mine.”

Just the sentiment alone had Phil arching up, seeking friction and touch, unable to see or move more. Gods, but Phil was already putting himself in Clint’s hands; just the act of allowing Clint to tie him up and blindfold him was a giant step for the trained agent who always sat facing the door.

“I need …” Phil moaned, so hard and leaking that he gasped at the slightest brush of fingers.

“I’m going to take care of you. And right now, you need to eat and drink so we can get through this.” Clint had to rein himself in with a deep breath; a full stomach and lots of water would mitigate the drug.

He patiently fed Phil the rest of the burger and fries, teasing him as he did. He brushed a nipple to hardness, ketchup on his finger then sucked it off. He licked every line of Phil’s ranger tattoo as he fed him fries, using the salt to trace them first. Twice, he let his arm ghost along the tip of Phil’s cock, enjoying the way Phil pleaded for more. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d have Phil here, in his bedroom, defenses down and begging so prettily for Clint. Phil, it turned out, had a filthy mouth; his language and the things he was asking for would make a sailor blush.

Finally, when the food was almost all gone, Clint made Phil drink more water then tipped his tumbler of scotch so it ran down Phil’s chest and into the wiry dark hair nestled around the base of his cock. Clint followed it with his mouth, the peaty taste of the liquor mixed with salt and sweat, a taste that would forever be associated with Phil in Clint’s mind. Once he got to his goal, he licked across the head then down the length before taking him fully into his mouth once. Stopping to admire the way Phil’s head sprawled back with complete abandon, his muscles loose.

“Don’t move. If you do, I’ll have to punish you later. Tonight I’m taking care of you.” When Phil didn’t move, Clint asked in a firm voice, “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Phil managed.

Clint dragged his lips down over Phil’s cock and sucked hard, knowing it wouldn’t take long, not with the state Phil was in. Fingertips caressed Phil’s balls and then Clint started pulsing up and down. The muscles in Phil’s thighs tightened as he tried to stay still, heaving short breaths to maintain control. Hips twitched, Phil groaned and he came in spurts, his spirit willing but his body slowing. Clint swallowed then caught the last mouthful and held it, sitting up; he ran his thumb over Phil’s lip and when Phil parted for him, he kissed him, sharing the flavor. Phil’s cock dribbled more as it jerked one more time.

“Tired,” Phil mumbled as he collapsed against the back of the chaise. “Think it’s finally wearing off.  Just a little left.”

 “Good. You’re so good, Phil,” Clint praised as he stood up and shucked off his clothes, tossing them carelessly in the corner. “Soon, I’m going to put you to bed and you can sleep. But first, because you were so good and didn’t move, I’m going to give you want you been asking for.”

One of the reasons Clint put him on the chaise was the fact that he could easily straddle Phil and let the tip of his own cock rub along Phil’s mouth.

“Oh, God,” Phil moaned. “Yes. Please. I’ll be good. I promise. Take it all.”

“I know you will.” When Phil tried to lean into Clint, he pulled back and curled his hands around Phil’s head, holding him still. “Beg for it, Phil. Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck my mouth,” he said. “Want to suck you, want to make you come.” He paused then added, “Please, sir.”

Too much for Clint to take, the words did something to his gut and spiraled up into his chest. With a sigh, he gave into to his own need and pressed into the moist heat of Phil’s mouth, working his thrusts from shallow to deeper, building slowly despite the demands of his body. The edge of the silk tie dragged against Clint, driving him to go faster. Finally he was so deep Phil was almost gagging as he sucked and Clint could swear that Phil tilted his head slightly and took him even deeper in his throat. He was snapping his hips far too soon, teeth leaving little red marks in his lips to stop himself from telling Phil just how he felt about him. Tension was coiling, tighter and tighter, just like Phil’s mouth, and then Clint was coming, long and hard, Phil’s swallows like little clenches around Clint’s cock.

Clint’s mind spun when he gazed down at Phil, a smear of come on his cheek, body slack and sated. Slowly recovering, he stroked Phil’s jaw then walked on shaky legs to the bathroom, wet a towel under warm water, grabbed a dry one and returned to clean Phil. Long strokes didn’t rouse any interest in Phil’s cock; he was gone, down so deep that he was almost unaware of Clint’s presence. Untying his feet and hands, Clint left the blindfold on as he used his strength to pull Phil up and walk him over to the bed. He tucked him under the covers and made short work of the rest of the mess, riding his own post-sex high. When everything was back in its place, Clint crawled in bed behind Phil, flicking off the lights before he removed the blindfold. He wrapped Phil in his arms and lay content to listen to the even breaths and steady heartbeat of the man he had been in love with for years.

NINE WEEKS LATER

“Gavin.” Phil greeted the man as he entered. Still in his suit complete with rips and a bloodstain on the lapel, Phil had come straight from a briefing, exhausted beyond words, but needing to be here.

“Bad one, eh?” Gavin never asked for details because he understood the aftermath of a tough assignment. “Clint’s up in the parlor, waiting for you.”

One by one, Phil dropped his weapons in the small safe disguised as a drawer in the desk. “We all came back, so that’s a win, right?”

“Amen.” Gavin waited until Phil scanned his thumb print and then closed the drawer. “You want to leave the coat or keep it?”

“Take it.” Phil shrugged out of his jacket, itching to be out of it. Suit up, Tony always said and this was Phil’s, perfectly tailored, but a costume nonetheless.

As he entered the main hall, he could think of nothing but shucking off the last vestiges of Agent Phil Coulson, SHIELD badass in charge. He rolled up his sleeves, loosened the blue striped tie Clint had given him, and unbuttoned the first two buttons. Tugging the shirt bottom out of his pants, he left it untucked as he nodded to Pam and Roger and headed upstairs. He took the stairs two at a time and was at the parlor door in seconds, hand on the knob. Inside, Clint was sprawled in an overstuffed leather chair, a glass of scotch in his hand; Reisa reclined on a chaise, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, smoke rising from the burning tip. All Phil saw was Clint’s eyes, the way he took stock of every smudge on Phil’s clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, and the dab of blood on the back of his hand. In two strides, Phil was sinking down to the floor, leaning his back along Clint’s leg, resting his head on Clint’s thigh. He laid one hand over the other in his lap, palms up, and released the breath he’d been holding the whole way here as Clint’s fingers smoothed over his hair and along his cheek. Dropping took longer than he’d like – he was still learning how to go from SHIELD to submissive – but soon his heart rate slowed and he felt the worries beginning to slide away.

“Have you eaten?” Clint asked after a long period of silence.

“No, sir.” Phil quashed the urge to shake his head, remembering to reply verbally. He’d been in a hurry to get here.

“How long?” Clint’s hand slipped to Phil’s neck, tightening slightly a warning. They’d discovered that Phil liked breath play and they were experimenting with it.

“I had rations on the flight back, maybe four hours ago.” He hadn’t wanted to eat anything, too wound up by what they’d found, but he knew Clint would be angry so he’d made himself choke down a power bar.

“Doesn’t really count as food, but it will do for now.” Clint went back to stroking.

“Ellen, darling,” Reisa called. “Bring Phil some of Mel’s fried chicken. And I’m sure we’ll need a big slice of pie.”

Phil exhaled. Mel’s pie was worth risking punishment for. “Pie,” he said, dragging the word out like it was a prayer. Clint laughed and swatted Phil’s head.

“Yes, pie. She made it for you,” Clint said. “Take your shoes off and get comfortable.”

Now that he had permission, he removed his shoes, tucking his socks into them, and coiling up his belt after he removed it. As each item left his body, he felt freer; when he was done, we went back to sitting at Clint’s feet, waiting for whatever Clint had in mind for the evening, his mind wandering over all the things they’d tried together in the last months.  People at work were beginning to notice something was different; Jasper had asked if he’d changed underwear brands and Maria had bluntly told him to keep his sex life to himself. As long as he was content, that was all she needed to know. This was his and Clint’s world now, what happened behind the doors of Reisa’s club and in the privacy of their bedrooms. The fact that it made Phil better at his job, more centered, grounded in a way he hadn’t been before meant that Fury wasn’t going to ask any questions. Only Natasha knew and she wasn’t telling.

A plate piled with a crispy chicken breast, a thigh and leg alongside what looked like a mountain of smashed potatoes and brown gravy was set on the table. The smell was heavenly and Phil’s stomach growled loudly.

“Rations,” Clint huffed. He swiped a finger through the potatoes and offered it to Phil. They were creamy, loaded with sour cream and butter, some sort of seasoning, and Phil licked off every last bit. “I’m in the mood to try that new leather tom kat you ordered,” he said to Reisa. “I was playing with it a little; nice heft and very supple.”

Phil shivered. He’d seen the whip Clint was talking about and it was a step above with they’d worked with before. A little chicken grease dribbled down his chin as he took the bite from Clint’s hand, and he moaned, just a tiny sound, but he knew Clint heard it from the way his fingers flexed against Phil’s skin.

“Eat first, relax a bit, and then I’m going to make you forget what happened. And if you’re very, very good, I’ll fuck you afterwards while the marks are still stinging,” Clint whispered in his ear.

Everything Phil wanted, offered up by the man he was hopelessly in love with. It didn’t get any better than that. He sighed and let Clint feed him, content to trust him and let the rest go.

“Yes, sir.”

 

 


End file.
